Finlay Alexander Flynn

Name: Finlay Alexander Flynn
Age: 28
Race: Ghoul (formally human)
Powers: Doesn't appear to age
Job: Groundskeeper at Kin City Cemetery
PB: Ben Whishaw
Player: Liz

Finlay's Story (in his own words):

Finlay Flynn, it sounds like the name of a cartoon character, or some crap children's novel. It's not though, it's just my name. I used to think my parents must have been havin' a laugh naming me something like that, but lately it just seems fitting. Finlay Flynn: Eternal fucking loser.

Not that I see my family much these days. Hell, I moved off world just to put some distance there. Things just haven't been the same between us since I died. Or, well, didn't die- since I am, technically, living. You see there was this tumor, bloody massive, apparently. And it was crushing my brain- Might still be for all I know. I'm not really that sure how this all works. All I know is I didn't want to die, and when I prayed for a miracle- I got him instead. This doctor who says he saved my life, slipping rotting flesh into my meals until I was just like him. Alive, but- not really. I'm warm, and I breathe (though I'm not sure I need to), and my heart beats in a slow and steady pace, thumping with a rhythm like a clock that needs winding. I don't age though, and my hair seems to take forever to grow… Last time I grew a beard it took three months just to cover my chin.

That can't be normal.

Being what I am makes it hard to make friends or find a job, but it's not hard to sniff out my own kind and Charlie at the funeral home was kind enough to set me up with a job at the graveyard and the keys to the groundskeepers shack. It's not much, but it's free- and it makes it easy to eat when I need to.

Sure, I can eat real food, but if I don't have a little rotting flesh at least once a day- Well, let's just say I start to fall apart.

Sometimes I worry I'm rotting inside- that one day I'll be under the hot spray of the shower and my skin will slip from my bones.

My heart's a dying clock, and I worry that one day my rotting midnight snacks will stop working.

Other nights I welcome the end.

I'm so wrong, I'm all wrong. And that thing in my head, that tumor I swear I can sometimes feel crushing my mind… It should have killed me years ago.

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